


Tarshish

by Seeking7



Category: Linked Universe - Fandom, The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Linked Universe (Legend of Zelda), Wind has an existential crisis, Wind is an absolute baby and would do anything for his brothers, bless himb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:26:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25823608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seeking7/pseuds/Seeking7
Summary: “Orca, sir, may I ask you a question?”“Of course, Master Link.”“When does optimism become self-deception?”++++Wind has built his identity around being the funny, light-hearted group optimist. But being constantly hopeful is exhausting, especially when it isn't genuine.And running away from the implications of one's insincerity only makes things worse.(A character study of Wind, and an exploration of what it truly means to be an optimist.)
Relationships: Aryll (Legend of Zelda) & Wind (Linked Universe), Four & Hyrule & Legend & Sky & Time & Twilight & Warriors & Wild & Wind (Linked Universe), Four & Wind (Linked Universe), Sky & Wind (Linked Universe), Twilight & Wind (Linked Universe), Warriors & Wind (Linked Universe)
Comments: 61
Kudos: 213





	1. Joppa

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was originally a oneshot, but I decided to expand on it because there are a lot of themes in here that I wanted to explore. I hope you all enjoy! 
> 
> Also, I stuffed this fic to the teeth with biblical allusions. If you pick up on any of them, don't be afraid to leave a comment explaining what you think the allusion is and what it means! If you're right, you'll get a shout out in Ch2. 😉

Wind got anxious whenever one of the other Links were upset. 

The sailor pressed his face to the window of Four’s house and watched his breath fog up the glass. He wiped a finger through the condensation, eyebrows furrowing as Twilight’s seated figure came into view. From behind, it almost looked like the rancher was simply sitting on the porch and enjoying the sunset. 

Wind knew better. 

And so, he was anxious. 

Small feet paced around the door, deaf to the floorboards’ groans of protest. The sailor tapped the tips of his boots on the floor to remove the pressure from his ankle blisters as he thought. What should he do? What  _ could _ he do? He couldn’t just let Twilight sit like that…

Hot, urgent sympathy jolted through him. Wind paced faster. His fingers absent-mindedly brushed the curved, polished handle of the Wind Waker on his belt, but recoiled when he registered its cool touch. No, Twilight didn’t like magic. That wouldn’t work. Music? That might work. Wind rubbed a spot on his shoulder that had grown sore from his baldric and brushed his thumb along the Phantom Sword’s hilt. 

Ah! 

“Four, Four!” Wind babbled. He repeated his exclamation as he sprinted out of the living room and into the forge, growing louder as Four came into view. He was presently engrossed in pouring water into one of his quench tanks, and his eyes flickered to Wind for only a second before refocusing on his earlier preoccupation. 

“Mmmm, what is it?” Four asked, clearly distracted. Wind repeated his exhortation once again, and his face fell when he received the same mindless response. His fingers drummed impatiently atop a worn anvil. He combed his fingers through his hair and worked through a snarl at the back of his head. Hylia, how long was it going to take for Four to notice he was waiting? Wind’s eyes drifted to the window, and the smallest sliver of Twilight’s silhouette that could be seen through it. 

This couldn’t wait. 

“Do you have any play swords?” Wind blurted out. The smithy’s attention finally shifted from the quench tank to the sailor, who had turned a peculiar shade of white. Wind’s feet tapped incessantly against the floor, and his fingers fidgeted so aggressively with the hem of his tunic Four was astonished the threads hadn’t started to come loose. 

“Play swords?” Four echoed.

“Play swords!” 

“Is there something wrong with your sword?” Four asked. Wind shook his head and crossed his arms. “Are you sure?” Four continued. “It’s alright if you dinged it up a little, it shouldn’t take me a minute to fix it.” 

Wind shook his head again and placed his hands on his hips. “I want to play spar with Twilight,” he explained, “but we need to have the same type of sword for it to be totally fair. And anyway, I’m very careful with the Phantom Sword.” 

Four nodded. His eyebrows shot up behind his headband when he finally processed what Wind had said. 

“Spar? With  _ Twilight _ ?” Four asked. 

“Yup!” 

“Now _?”  _

“Yup!” Wind responded. He pressed the corners of his lips into a flat line. “Is there something wrong with that?” 

“No, no. Of course not.” Four leaned against the wall and rubbed his chin, mulling over Wind’s earlier request. “Play swords, you said?” 

“Yup!” 

The smithy’s face softened in preemptive apology, and Wind groaned. 

“Don’t tell me you don’t have  _ anything,  _ Four. You’re a blacksmith!” Wind said. 

“Well--” 

“I mean, look at the wall behind you! There are swords mounted right there!” 

Four sighed. 

“Well, play swords are something you’re more likely to find at a carpentry shop, not a forge. These ones here on the wall are army-grade, probably too heavy for Twilight and certainly too heavy for you. I -- oh don’t give me that look, sailor -- okay, here, I’ll check in the back and see if there’s anything that might work.”

“Thank you so so so so much!” Wind exclaimed, clasping his hands hands under his chin and giving Four the brightest smile he had. The smithy grinned and reached up to ruffle the sailor’s hair before making his way out the back door. 

Wind watched him go, then took a seat on the anvil. The cool metal pressed against the bones in his rear and stung his hand. The sailor swung his legs in the air to distract himself, letting his mind and eyes wander. His focus bounced from the swords mounted on the wall, to the forge’s friendly crackling, to the polished hardwood floor beneath him. Dying sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating the troupe of dust motes dancing above him. Wind waved a hand through them, cringing as his fingers disturbed their synchronized swirling. 

His mind drifted backwards to the day’s earlier events. The smell of hateful words and burnt breakfast still lingered in his nostrils.

Wind’s fingers shook.

He hated this. 

_ He hated this.  _

Breath in. 

Breath out. 

Wind bit his thumb until the thoughts faded to the back of his mind, and thrust himself into the business of distracting himself as quickly as he could. 

He looked around the empty room and ran a hand through his hair. The others should have been back from Castle Town by now, that is, if they had actually gone out to buy ingredients for dinner. They hadn’t, of course. Wind wasn’t stupid enough to believe their excuses, but he and Four had feigned ignorance and let the others go without another word. 

Perhaps it was better that they were gone. With the situation between Twilight and--

“I found something!” Four exclaimed, kicking the back door open and cradling a small assortment of swords in his arms. He set them down in front of Wind and made a space for the sailor to sit next to him on the floor. 

“Wow, these are really pretty looking!” Wind exclaimed. 

They weren’t. Actually, each sword was the same dingy color of grey, complete with unremarkable hilt designs and subtly disfigured blades. They looked like something a blacksmith’s apprentice might have made his first day on the job.

“You think so?” Four asked incredulously. “I made these a really long time ago. Before my adventures, I think, maybe when I was around eight or nine. Didn’t think I would ever get compliments on these old pieces of trash…” 

Four smiled to himself and trailed his fingers along one sword’s misshapen blade. Wind’s face brightened at the smithy’s wistful look, and he resisted the urge to reach out and wrap Four in his arms. 

“Anyway,” Wind continued, pressing his eyebrows upwards in an attempt to flick away the distracted thoughts, “are there any here that I could use for sparring?” 

“Hmmm, good question. Maybe these two,” Four said, picking up two rapiers and balancing them in the palm of his hand. “They’re probably the most sound -- in regards to structure, I mean -- and best for sparring.” 

Wind stared at the thin, elegant blades, and immediately decided against them. 

“No, those won’t work. Twilight won’t be able to spar with a sword like that,” Wind asserted.

Four smiled knowingly and placed the two swords back on the floor. 

“Really? Or do you mean  _ you  _ wouldn’t be able to spar with a sword like that?” 

Wind clucked his tongue and tossed his hair, stifling a smile when Four raised his eyebrows. 

“Listen here, mister high and mighty smithy,” Wind began, pursing his lips and soaking his words with a pompous Northern Hylian accent. His lips flickered with satisfaction when he saw the grin on Four’s face. “Back on my home island, we have a brand of traditional fencing that uses swords very much like your ‘rapiers.’ And I believe that you’re forgetting that I’m a pirate as well; what’s more pirate-like than a thin sword and a thin patience to match? If anyone in this group would be a professional with one, it would be  _ me.”  _

“Oh, forgive me, mighty pirate,” Four said, matching Wind’s fake accent with his own, “I was unaware. Please pardon this sin, my lord.” 

Wind took one of the rapiers by the hilt and lightly tapped Four’s shoulders with the blade. 

“You’re forgiven, stinky smithy.” 

“ _ Stinky smithy?”  _

Wind tried to force out another sentence of flowery aristocrat-talk, but the look on Four’s face broke his focus. The sailor snorted, then giggled, then howled with laughter when Four repeated his question. Four punched Wind in the shoulder, then put him into a headlock and ground his knuckles against the sailor’s forehead. 

“Ah! Ah, stop!” Wind squealed. “Don’t noogie the sailor!” 

Four released his hold. Wind pressed the back of his palm to his forehead and laid on the floor with a dramatic sigh. 

“You’ve killed me, smithy.” 

“Oops. Sorry about that. Won’t do it again,” Four said with a grin. Wind snickered, then sat back up and stared at the swords in front of him. The smile slipped off his face as he remembered what the swords were there for. 

“Anyway,” Wind began, “I think a shortsword would be best. Something like this.” His fingers fastened around the hilt of a stout shortsword and pulled it through the air. 

“Sounds like a good choice to me,” Four said, picking up a slightly larger shortsword. “You can use the smaller one, and the ranch hand can use this one.” 

Wind took the sword from Four, face blank, and stood up to leave. 

“Wait,” Four said. 

“Yeah?” 

“Nevermind.” 

The sailor made his way to the door and reached for the knob, only to be interrupted again. 

“Wait,” Four said. Wind stopped, letting his hand drop from the front door’s knob. He sighed and turned around. 

“What?” 

“Uh, well, hmmm. Okay, I’m not really sure how to say this, but are you sure it’s a good idea to talk to Twilight right now? I think he just needs some time to cool off.” 

“I’m not going to  _ talk  _ to him, I’m going to  _ spar  _ with him.” 

Four chewed on his bottom lip, but eventually relented. 

“Whatever you think is best. Just, just don’t bring up what happened with Time.” 

Irritation fizzled underneath Wind’s skin. Of  _ course  _ he wouldn’t bring it up, he was trying to help Twilight, not hurt him! The sailor forced a smile onto his face and tilted his head genially. 

“Don’t worry, I got this,” he said. The smithy nodded in uncomfortable understanding and watched as Wind slipped out the front door. 

The door opened without a sound. Wind closed it behind him before Four could call him back, and held his breath as he crept across the wooden porch. After gnawing on his nails and quickly fiddling with the swords in his hands, Wind took a seat next to Twilight. The rancher’s ears twitched in recognition, but, aside from that, Twilight might as well have been oblivious to his presence. 

Dusk settled. The two heroes were silent. Wind anxiously ran his thumb around the pommel of one of the swords, eyes snapping back and forth between Twilight and the spot on the horizon he seemed fixated on. Their breath clouded in the cold air like sheets of silk. Wind tried not to shiver. 

“What do you want from me?” Twilight finally snapped. 

“I--” 

“You’re just going to defend him, aren’t you? Well, if everyone has decided that I’m the bad guy, then have the decency to leave me alone.” 

“Twilight, I just want to--” 

“To talk? Well, I don’t. I can keep whatever secrets I want. It’s nobody’s business but mine.” The rancher’s face hardened and the muscles under his skin grew stringy and taunt. “Go away, Wind.” Twilight’s eyes flickered with remorse for only a second before he turned away. 

“Twilight--” 

The word fell from Wind’s mouth, half-formed and too weak to even linger in the air. Wind inhaled a shaky breath and put his trademark smile back on his face before Twilight turned to look at him. 

“I just wanted to play spar with you,” Wind said. “Check out these swords! Same make and length. More or less, anyway. I mean, listen, wouldn’t it be nice to focus on something else for a little bit?” 

Twilight’s eyebrows knotted together, and his fingers slowly uncurled from the fists they had been jammed in to. He said nothing, but a familiar softness crept into his features, and Wind handed him a sword. The sailor grinned brightly when Twilight took it. 

“Well, we can’t spar if we’re sitting down! Get up!” 

Wind bounded off the porch and twirled the sword in his hands. Twilight stood up with a groan and followed the sailor to the front yard, still grumbling under his breath. The two walked to opposite sides of the clearing; stacks of tightly bundled hay sat behind the rancher, and Wind teetered on the edge of the cobblestone path in front of the house. A carpet of thick grass lay between the two, ruffled by the breeze.

“Okay, rancher! Are you ready?” Wind called from across the clearing. Twilight nodded, letting his weight drop into his feet and inhaling the dusky air through his nostrils. The sailor smiled and pressed one leg behind the other, holding his sword parallel to the ground.

Wind moved first.

The sailor sprinted across the clearing, feet hardly touching the ground, and thrust his sword forwards. The clang of metal on metal echoed off the trees as Twilight parried the attack, the momentum sending vibrations up Wind’s arms and forcing him backwards. His boots left semicircles of flattened grass behind him as he flailed for balance, and his breath became short as Twilight advanced. Adrenaline jetted under the sailor’s skin as he narrowly avoided three lightning-fast jabs. He backflipped to avoid another one of Twilight’s sharp, simple swipes and kicked up a cloud of dust as he did, using his opponent’s few seconds of blindness as a chance to put some distance between them. Wind grinned as the dust cleared and the flustered rancher came back into view. 

“Ready for more?” the sailor goaded. 

Twilight leapt forward, aiming to smack the flat part of his blade against Wind’s side. The sailor snorted in surprise, muttering something about having got his answer, and dashed to the clearing’s opposite end. Twilight followed with a storm of semi-circular swipes and forward jabs. Panting and sweating, Wind clambered up onto the stacked haybales, twirling his sword around him as if it were the Wind Waker itself. He waited until the rancher was directly beneath him, then leaned over the top with a devilish grin on his face.

“Hey Twilight!” 

The rancher looked up, eyebrows furrowing as he made eye contact with the sailor. Wind grinned wider.

“Ever had hay for dinner?” 

“Wha--” 

Before Twilight could finish his sentence, Wind kicked a haybale and sent it flying towards the ranch hand. The thin piece of string wrapped around the bale’s middle snapped upon contact with the rancher’s face, sending a cloud of yellowed hay into the air and into Twilight’s hair. 

Wind cackled, but the sound died in his throat as the hay cleared and Twilight’s face came into view. 

Oh no. 

Wind sucked the air in through his teeth and tried to ignore the acidic shame bubbling in his stomach. How had he screwed up this bad? He’d set out to help Twilight, help him get his mind off the horrible events of that day, and instead he’d embarrassed him and thrown hay in his face and  _ why was it so hard for him to just get it right for once? _

“Twilight I’m s--” 

Wind’s words died when Twilight let out the most brilliant peal of laughter he had in months. 

“Oh my  _ goddesses,  _ Wind!” Twilight said. “That was  _ brilliant.  _ How did I not see that coming?” 

“You’re not mad?” 

The rancher shook his head as he helped Wind off the stack of haybales. 

“No, not at all. The way you grinned at me earlier...I should have known you were planning something.” Twilight ran a hand through his hair and picked out a long string of hay. “Thanks. For thinking to spar and hang out with me, I mean. It means a lot.” 

Wind nodded his head, eyes searching for any hint of disingenuity or hidden pain in Twilight’s face. He placed a hand on the rancher’s forearm and shook it gently.

“Listen, today was weird.” 

“...yeah,” Twilight said, avoiding Wind’s gaze. 

“And listen, you still mean the world to me. Even if you...well...I forgive you for everything that happened today. That you had a part in, anyway. I’d do anything to see you happy, and I want you to know I’m not holding anything against you.” 

“Thanks, Wind.”

“I mean it.”

“I feel horrible about it, though. How am I supposed to look everyone in the face tomorrow?” 

“Don’t worry about tomorrow, it has enough of its own problems. Just do your best with what you have today. That’s what my grandma always tells me, anyway. And listen, I know things between you and Time are weird right now, but this problem is entirely fixable.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Absolutely. I trust you with my life, and I trust that you’ll be able to handle and fix everything that happened. The sun will come out, you know? And I’ll be there beside you the whole time.” 

Twilight’s face softened, and the muscles in his back and chest relaxed. 

“You’re amazing, Wind. I’m so glad to know an optimist like you.” 

“Me? The optimist?” 

“Always,” Twilight said softly. “Thank you for being yourself, Wind.” 

Wind smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

  
  



	2. Tarshish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Now the word of the Lord came to Jonah the son of Amittai, saying, “Arise, go to Nineveh, that great city, and call out against it, for their evil has come up before me.” But Jonah rose to flee to Tarshish from the presence of the Lord. He went down to Joppa and found a ship going to Tarshish." (Jonah 1:1-7) 
> 
> Wind keeps running, even though he doesn't know it.
> 
> (TW for vague references to suicide. Nothing more than that, however, but reader discretion is advised)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to Genderfluid_Puddle_of_Soup and the guest commenter by the nickname GreenBeans for figuring out the biblical allusions in Chapter 1! 
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy this rather short chapter! :D

Thrust.

Parry. 

Forward. 

Back. 

_Too slow, Link. Do it again._

Hands through hair, sweat on skin, focus focus _focus FOCUS._

Again. 

Do it again.

The sailor inhaled greedily and forced his energy to his fingertips. His sword thrust forward once again, glittering blade angled toward the battered apple tree in front of him. Bark flaked off the tree like snowflakes in winter, and a pathetic ivory crescent across the tree's trunk was the only memory of Wind’s attack. 

A chill swept through the orchard, and a kaleidoscope of dried, purple leaves skittered under his feet. Wind’s cheeks burned. His muscles cramped. He coughed and wiped away the cloudy spittle dribbling down his chin. Red lines criss-crossed the hand gripping the Phantom Sword’s hilt, a flesh memory of the pommel’s design. 

His focus wavered from underneath him as he geared up for another attack. 

_It smells like rotting apples, gross. How often does the veteran tend his orchard? Why is my angle of my swing so off? If this was a real battle I would have been dead by now. Yuck! What did I just step on? Eww, there’s ants all over it! Why are my arms so sore? I hope the others don’t find me. My reflexes are getting worse and---_

Focus focus _focus._

Thrust. 

Parry. 

_I’m so tired._

_Hylia I’m just so so tired._

Wind shook the thought away and leapt forward, swiping unthinkingly at the tree’s midsection.

A morose, earthy groan complemented the grumble of steel on wood, and the leaves at the canopy’s crown trembled with unease. Hairline cracks spiderwebbed through the bark and deepened as gravity grew possessive. 

Wood splintered like glass, and Wind’s eyes widened as the tree crashed to the floor. 

_Nice one, self! Look what you did!_

Wind winced and waited for his mind to be quiet. Pointedly averting his eyes from the fallen tree, he sheathed his sword and sat on the ground, ignoring the dew seeping into the seat of his pants. His eyes, searching desperately for a distraction, wandered up to the dusky, indigo sky. 

Sunset that day had been a particularly underwhelming affair. There hadn’t been a cloud in the sky to catch the sun’s last rays, and the brilliance of day had instantly slipped away with its benefactor. Even now a certain sense of insipidity hung in the air. The moon was nothing more than a dim rip in the grey, discolored sky. The air was stale and hot. Stars glinted half-heartedly, as if they, too, were too tired to be beautiful that night. 

_I hate this._

Something deep within the sailor broiled and flared as his brooded over the events of the day. He looked away quickly, ignoring the rusty crack of the vertebrae in his neck. 

_Get it together, Link!_

He forced a dusty smile onto his face. 

His soul didn’t return the gesture. 

Before a full thought could register in his mind, Wind found himself on his feet. Vertigo frothed under his skin but he paid it no mind. With itchy, cramping arms, he clutched the Phantom Sword to his chest and walked aimlessly through the maze of dying apple trees. 

Dragonflies darted overhead, the last flickers of daylight still dancing in their iridescent wings. The croak of far-off frogs complemented the crunch of Wind’s boots on dry leaves. Fireflies flitted in and out of the underbrush, almost mocking the glazed look in Wind’s eyes. 

A muffled gong of common sense echoed through the sailor as the imprudence of his wandering finally dawned on him. But where else would he go? There wasn’t any room in the veteran’s tiny house, or so Legend has said when the strange purple bunny man had tried to charge them rent, so they were all stuck in the veteran’s abandoned apple orchard. Maybe he could find somewhere to nap and regroup with the others in the morning. After all, he had the best sense of direction. Not that it was much of an achievement, Wind thought, mind flickering to the traveler’s sunburnt face and the champion’s scarred grin, but at least he wouldn’t get lost. 

The mental chatter grew louder, more insistent, frazzled and exhausted with shadowy suggestions and acidic accusations. Wind rapped his knuckles against his temples until the pain deafened the screaming in his head.

The pungent forest only grew denser. Keese squealed in the distance. Ratty bushes sprung from the earth, appearing almost grey from the thick coating of dust. 

_How big is this place?_

The sailor grunted, now seriously considering the possibility of sleeping in any suitable place he could find. He was about to curl up under a conveniently shaped overhang of rock when a familiar voice reached his ears. The sound was as tuneless as it was wordless, a flat jumble of sound that might have been a poor imitation of song.

_Warriors._

Wind followed the sound of the captain’s tone-deaf humming and nearly collapsed with relief when he stumbled upon a gorgeous, landscaped clearing. Apple trees encircled the glade, their leaves so fresh and new that they were still edged with red. Tiny apple blossoms dotted the branches, and vibrant, emerald vines laced through the grass and draped themselves over the small trees. A fairy circle of mushrooms sat in the center of the clearing, as if shrinking from the gaze of the boy-sized rocks scattered about. 

Wind nearly choked on his exhaustion as he took a seat on a rock, but his eyes refused to rest when he closed them. The humming grew louder, and Wind cringed internally. In any other circumstance the sailor would have covered his ears, but an increasingly-familiar sluggishness weighed him down. 

“Hey there, little sailor,” a curiously despondent voice said. Wind whipped his head around so quickly that a vertebrae cracked, still startled at being found, and forced himself to speak through the pain. 

“Hello, Captain! I thought I heard you singing. Do you know where the others are?” 

The captain nodded his head, then, face scrunched in deliberation, shook it. 

“I did, but the old man suggested we split up to find a place to sleep. I stumbled on this place a little while ago and was hoping to backtrack to the group, but I couldn’t find anyone. Thought it would be best to sit here and look for them in the morning.” 

Warriors shrugged off his pauldron and propped it up on the rock Wind sat on. 

“This would have been much easier if everyone hadn’t left their stuff at the veteran’s house,” Wind mused. 

“This would have been much easier if the veteran didn’t have an actual con artist running a business in his living room! I was hoping to sleep in an actual bed tonight, but you couldn’t pay me to sleep in that pigsty of a house.” 

Warriors huffed and took a seat on the floor, letting his back lean against a bush. His eyes met Wind’s, and he patted the grass beside him in invitation. The sailor hopped off the rock and took a seat next to the captain, trying to ignore the chafing silence. 

“...you know, it’s good that the old man and rancher are getting along again.” 

“You thought they wouldn’t?” Warriors said, his words sharp but his tone soft. “One misunderstanding, irregardless of how big it was, isn’t enough to separate those two. They’re glued to each other’s hips whether they like it or not.” 

Wind nodded, too distracted by the sulky look on Warriors’ face to process the latter’s words. 

“Yeah...that’s true. Anyway,” the sailor continued, “what’s that song you were singing earlier?” 

“Oh please, you’re flattering me. You know I can’t sing.”

Wind snickered despite himself. The captain might have had a pompous streak, but he was just as fastidious in speech as he was in his morning routine, and expected the same from others. 

“Okay, fine. Maybe calling it singing is a bit of a stretch, but you definitely weren’t just talking.”

The captain huffed. His scarf fluttered in the breeze as the dim moonlight glistened against the swell of his cheeks and elegant curve of his nose. A cerulean thoughtfulness saturated the captain’s irises, and something deep within Wind twinged. He told himself it was only jealousy; a sunburnt island boy had no chance competing with the refined, sharp look of a military captain. 

Jealousy. 

Yup. 

That was it. 

“What’s eating you up?” Wind blurted out. Warriors blinked slowly, letting his eyelashes brush against his cheekbones. His gaze remained as unfocused as before. Wind repeated his question three more times, each time as cheerfully as the last, and waited for the answer with a smile. It became a little bit genuine when Warriors’ jaw worked to spit out an answer. 

“I’m tired, Sailor,” the captain finally said. 

Wind inhaled and waited for the air to strengthen the muscles around his heart. 

“Well, you know,” he began, “it’s kind of late, and if you’re tired you can sleep. I’ll keep watch, I promise. And I’m sure the others will come looking for us. And even if they don’t, we can find them first thing tomorrow!” 

“I’m not that kind of tired.” Warriors sighed. The tension in the captain’s back unraveled, and his body sunk into the bush. Tiny blossoms crept around him, and a fat, emerald leaf seated itself on the tip of his nose. Softness simmered underneath his chiseled, alabaster face. 

Wind’s heart froze.

_Oh NO._

He had seen the look in Warriors’ eyes a hundred times before a hundred different faces and hoped every day of his life never to see it again. 

He’d seen it on his grandmother’s face the day Aryll had been carried away. He had seen it in Ganondorf’s black, sorrowful eyes, in the King’s last, watery wave, in Linebeck’s baritone, possessed scream, in his own face when he looked in the mirror. 

_Hylia, nononononono_

The captain turned to him, eyes half-closed, his face the color of surrender. 

“Tell me, Sailor, are you ever so tired that you just...you just want everything to stop?” 

Wind’s heart hammered against his chest. 

“What do you mean?” Wind asked, already knowing the answer. 

The moon shimmered gold, and the world was silent. 

“I’m just so tired. Just so _so_ tired. Sometimes I wonder if what we’re doing brings good to anyone. Don’t get me wrong, I love being a hero, I love helping people, I love...I love what I do. I love what _we_ do. I love you guys. Even the veteran. But sometimes it looks like we’re trying to move mountains with spoons. Is there even a point to this anymore? Is there a point to waking up and fighting and hurting and going to bed knowing that the people we saved might have to go back to unloving homes or endure an unhappy future? Knowing that our eternal sacrifices only give the world temporary relief?” 

The corner of Wind’s lips twitched downwards. He said nothing. The captain continued. 

“I just want it to stop,” the captain pleaded, his voice low and smooth. 

Something desperate flickered in Warriors’ eyes. 

“I just want it to stop.” 

Wind felt the corners of his eyes burn with water. The bones of his ribcage were bruised and sore from the heart that slammed against them, and he tried in vain to calm himself down.

What was he supposed to say? 

_What was he supposed to say?_

“You know, there’s a saying in my hometown,” the captain continued, voice smooth and undisturbed as frost at winter’s peak. “If you have a bag with rupees at the half-way point, is it half-empty or half-full?” 

“Half-full,” Wind obediently replied. 

“I thought you’d say that. That’s what I would say, and the others as well, I assume. But, listen here, what do you do when you have no rupees in your bag at all?” 

Wind bit his tongue until the taste of metal flooded his mouth. 

“Do you look for something to fill your bag with?” Warriors asked. “Do you let it stay empty? Is there virtue in that? After all, the rupees can’t stay there forever. They might get stolen, lost, traded for something better...does it matter if it’s half-full or half-empty if it’s eventually going to all go to waste?” 

“Captain--” 

“Don’t give me that look, Sailor. I’m just thinking. I’m not actually going…I’m not going to do anything dangerous. I just, I just want it to stop. I just want to sleep for a thousand years. Maybe longer.” 

Wind’s eyebrows drew tight across his forehead, but he said nothing. 

“I’m just tired. So tired. Tell me, do you ever feel that way?” 

The sailor didn’t answer. He coughed pathetically and tried not to wince when he saw the crimson in his spit. 

“You know, Wars,” Wind finally responded, entirely unsure where his words were taking him, “it’s okay to feel that way. Things like this take a lot of time. To understand and overcome, I mean.” 

Warriors looked away. His eyelids shut and his chest stilled in the likeness of a fallen soldier. He leaned further into the bush, and a look of absolute contentment blossomed across his face.

“Captain, why are you smiling?” 

“Try it.” 

So he did. 

“Do you see?” Warriors asked. “It feels nice, doesn’t it?” 

_It does._

Wind bit his tongue harder.

_Why do I want to smile, too?_

“Good things don’t happen all at once,” Wind blurted, righting himself so quickly that he nearly shot out of the bush. “Captain, we need to keep fighting. We can’t -- we can’t just give up like this. Just, just imagine. Think about it, what would your world be like without you?” 

Warriors let out a curt snort, but there was a softness in his breath. Wind urged himself to keep going. 

“Look at that beautiful moon over there. It’s so lovely, isn’t it?” Wind said.

Warriors nodded. 

“You wouldn’t be able to enjoy it if...if you gave up. Oh, and look at that pretty moth!” Wind exclaimed, pointing at a tiny, white-winged moth fluttering through the air like a scrap of lace. “Gorgeous, isn’t it? And, and take a deep breath. Smell that? Isn’t the air so fresh tonight? Hylia has blessed us with so much.” 

Warriors gave Wind a smug smile. 

“You sound like Sky,” the captain said at last. 

Wind smiled. “In my book, that’s a compliment.” 

“That’s what it was intended to be.” Warriors said, a familiar, pompous drawl creeping into his voice. Wind’s heartbeat slowed, the leftover adrenaline burned in his face, and the terror from earlier faded away. “You know, I’m glad we talked,” Warriors finally said. 

“You are?” Wind asked, eyebrows shooting upwards. 

“Yeah. Your optimism is infectious. I’m--I’m sorry I unloaded that on you. I know that you’ve gone through a lot and that you’re way more mature than a lot of young men your age, but I--” 

“It’s okay,” the sailor asserted. 

He put on his smile again, and turned to face Wars. The captain smiled back. 

“It’s always okay,” Wind said.   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all for Chapter 2! I hope you enjoyed it. 
> 
> We're heading to Nineveh in Chapter 3, and I hope you guys will enjoy the ride 👀


	3. Nineveh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wind loses himself, and gentle arms carry him home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for letting this story dangle off as a WIP for so long, but I’m extremely excited to present the finale to you all! I truly hope you will enjoy.

Wind’s eyes stared back at him in the reflection of the moblin’s spear. The lanky, sinewy monster reeled back and lurched at the sailor, and he skittered away a heartbeat before the hit landed. 

The smell of metal and moblins and ambushed heroes was thick in the air. Arrows flew and stuck their pointed heads in the grass. Birds screeched from their perches in the foliage and fled away from the scene, leaving nine heroes to swing and swipe at the swarm of monsters before them. It seemed like Wild’s monsters had somehow made their way to Wind’s era. and even though the heroes had successfully driven most of them off of Outset Island, there was something extremely unsettling about seeing the skinny, sinewy moblins in the forests of his childhood home. 

A fire arrow whizzed overhead and singed the hair of Wind’s temples. He dropped to the floor and rolled underneath a moblin, stabbing his sword above him as he did. Time knocked the moblin to the floor with the flat part of his broadsword, and Four finished him off. The heroes breathed heavily as the last moblin fell and disappeared in a cloud of black mist, leaving behind only their weapons and the memory of their attacks on the heroes’ skin. 

“Your swordsmanship was excellent,” Sky said, placing a hand on Four’s shoulder. The smithy blushed, turning a deeper shade of red when all the other heroes turned to affirm the statement. Wind stood on the outside of the circle and added his praises to the pile as Wild joined in. Sky grinned and recounted all of the clean hits and elegant swipes the smithy had landed during the exchange. Everyone nodded in agreement. Four sputtered and smiled bashfully, and Wind grinned. There was something strangely gratifying in making the serious smithy smile. 

After a few more minutes of seeing how red their compliments could make Four, the group of heroes wandered out of Outset Island’s mountaintop forests and made their way to Wind’s house. Aryll ran out to greet them. Her ponytails bobbed in the balmy air, and Wind barely had the chance to wave before he found her arms wrapped around his waist. 

“Big brother! You’re back! Are you hurt?” 

“No,” Wind replied. “I’m fine.” 

Wind smiled, and the sunburnt skin of his cheeks stung. He watched blankly as the heroes filed through the door of his house and greeted his grandmother with hugs and grandiose bows. Only at Aryll’s insistence did he remember to enter the house himself, and he blushed furiously as his sister “confiscated” his sword and shield before ordering him to go eat. 

A plate of creamy soup was handed to him. Wind smiled and thanked his grandmother with a kiss before taking a seat by the fireplace, pressing himself against the hot stone that bordered the flames. His grandmother had to shoo him away on more than one occasion, insisting that the heat would do little to help his burns or keep his clothes unsinged. Wind smiled and took a seat next to Four. The earlier conversation about Four’s swordsmanship had come back up, and this time, fueled by rich soup and warm faces and content hearts, it was far more affectionate and animated than before. 

At first, it was fun to pitch in. Four squirmed underneath the weight of each compliment, and the warmth that came with making someone else smile was palpable. But the conversation turned out to be much more long-lived than Wind had expected. Irritation slowly prickled up his neck and forced his eyebrows downwards. His inclination to participate in the conversation whittled away in chunks as he realized just how forgotten he was. 

“Good goddesses, sailor, who spat in your soup?” 

Wind startled. Legend laughed at his own quip, and the others followed. The sailor pressed the corner of his lips upwards and laughed along with them, embarrassed at how easy to read he was.

“I’m just thinking about how the day went,” Wind said, taking care to color his words with his famous brand of enthusiasm. “That backflip I did earlier, do you guys remember? The one I did to get on the moblin’s shoulders...did anyone see it? I--psshhhh, it was so bad! So messy, honestly.” Wind placed a hand over his mouth and giggled. The lie settled like acid at the back of his mouth as a thoughtful look settled over the group.

Wind’s veins flushed with pride. The backflip he’d executed earlier had been  _ far  _ from bad and he knew it. In fact, he was still astounded that he’d been able to pull it off so cleanly. Self-satisfaction bloomed in his chest, and a genuine smile crept onto his face. 

“Oh, the backflip? I remember that. I don’t think it was that bad, I mean, it’s a good thing that you were able to tell that, like, it wasn’t as clean as it  _ could  _ have been, but that isn’t anything to beat yourself up for,” Four said, eyebrows pressed together. 

Wind’s smile fell off his face. 

“I think you were just tired,” Sky said, his face illuminated with horrible sincerity. “You know, everyone tends to get a little sloppy when they’re tired. But I gotta say, your swordsmanship has really gotten so much better than from the time I first met you.” 

Gotten better? 

_ Had it been bad before?  _

The other heroes chimed in with their own two rupees, piling on tactical advice about stretches and aerial techniques that Wind should keep in mind to avoid another disastrous backflip stunt. The sailor found his resolve dissolving underneath him, and he used the last dredges of his strength to put his smile back on. 

_ I thought it was good?  _

_ I thought I was good? _

_ Why are my cheeks so sore?  _

_ Why does it hurt to smile?  _

_ Why am I so tired?  _

“...but anyway, Wind,” Sky said, watching as the sailor snapped to attention at the sound of his name, “even though you might have a little room for improvement, you’re doing great. Really, you’re such an inspiration -- a hero as young as you? I would never have been able to do what you’ve done if I started my journey at the same age you did.” 

The others nodded in agreement, and Warriors gave Wind a gentle clap on the back. The compliments fell on deaf ears and Wind felt the pleasure that would have usually accompanied such words roll off his back. A quiet, sinking hole pressed against his diaphragm, and he felt his energy siphon out of him as he replayed the conversation in his head over and over. 

He was still eating his soup, drop by tedious drop, by the time the others had washed their bowls and retired to bed. Wind’s grandmother urged him to finish his food as Aryll brushed her hair and snuggled next to Twilight. At his grandmother’s behest, Wind slurped his soup with marginally more determination than before, but the skin around his eyes was slack and confused. 

“What’s wrong, Link?” 

“Nothing, Grandma,” Wind replied, placing his empty bowl in his grandmother’s soft, wrinkled hands and wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “Just tired.” 

“Mmm,” his grandmother replied. Wind could still feel her eyes on him even as she turned to place the dish in a tub of wash water. 

“I promise, that’s all.” 

“You promise?” 

“Yes,” Wind said. 

The quiet thrill that came with getting away with a blatant lie had grown both familiar and detestable to Wind. He blinked the guilt away and stood up, trying not to smile at the way he towered over his grandmother. 

“Where are you going?” his grandmother suddenly asked.

Wind froze in front of the door, and his hand hovered above the knob like a criminal’s glove over a priceless gem. 

“I just want to visit Orca,” Wind lied. 

His grandmother’s face softened and her eyebrows slipped lower over her face; the realization that she was completely aware he was lying struck Wind like lightning. The air shuddered with snores and sleepy mumbling and familial tension. 

Finally, his grandmother relented. 

“If you’re going out, you’ll need your sword then, won’t you?” His grandmother picked up the Phantom Sword from its spot on the floor, grunting with effort as she slowly straightened her back and carried the blade over to Wind. “Be careful, Link.” 

“I will,” he responded automatically. 

“And listen,” she continued, cupping Wind’s cheek in her hand, “I love you. Not just because you're a swordsman, or because you’re a hero, or because you’re my grandson…” her voice trembled for a moment as her fingers grazed a cut under Wind’s eyes. “But because I see the beauty and compassion in your heart. I am so thankful to call you and your sister my best friends and family. Link, you are worth far more than a sword and a shield.” 

Wind’s hand curled around his grandmother’s own, and their hearts beat in time with each other. Words didn’t come, but there was no need for them. 

“Grandma, I--”

Time let out an earth-shattering snore, and the tranquility of the moment was shattered. But a few shards of peace had stuck themselves into Wind’s heart, and his smile truly reached his eyes. 

“Go quickly, now,” his grandmother urged, nearly pushing him out the door, “Sue-bell makes her grandfather and granduncle go to bed when the midnight tide goes out, so you’ll need to hurry.” 

Wind stumbled out onto the warm sand and fastened his grip around the sword. Soft grains of sand rubbed against his bare feet, and he decided against going back inside the hut to grab his shoes. With a wave and a smile tossed behind him, Wind meandered across the beach. 

He knocked once on Orca’s door, more as a warning than a request to enter, and slipped inside. The swordsman sat at sleepy attention at a table on the far corner of the room, sharpening his spear with a round stone. His face lit up at the sight of Wind’s silhouette in the doorway. 

“Master Link!” Orca exclaimed, pulling his spear off the table and making his way over to bow in front of the small hero. “What a pleasure. How are you?” 

“I’m good,” Wind lied, making sure his smile reached his eyes this time. “Just had some energy I wanted to get out. Do you have a moment to spare for a spar? I don’t want to wake up Sturgeon or Sue-bell.”

“My brother and grandniece went out for a walk along the beach; they should be back before the tide. And in regards to if I have time to spar, yes, I would be honored to spend a few moments with you, Master Link.” 

Wind nodded, and he tightened his grip on the Phantom Sword. Orca lit a few oil lamps to clear away the din, and took a position on the opposite side of the room. 

“Are you ready, Master Link?” 

Wind nodded again. 

The two swordsmen walked to opposite sides of the room and bowed to each other, waiting for the ding of an imaginary gong to fade from their ears. Moonlight flooded through an open window, and the air was still. 

The floorboards exploded in protest as Orca surged forward. 

Wind blocked him without even blinking. The sailor advanced with a slow and careful foot, his face creased with a determination that betrayed there was far more on his mind than just sword and step. His eyebrows drew further together as he batted away another one of Orca’s forward thrusts, using the momentum from his swing to bring his sword inches away from the older swordsman’s neck. Intelligent, white eyes locked with Wind’s own, and the stench of the sea hung in the air. 

Orca twisted underneath Wind and hit the sailor’s wrist with the blunt side of his spear. Wind grunted in surprise, then let out a half-hearted whimper when he registered the bunching and twisting of muscle underneath the bruise. 

“Ah, ah! Ah!!” 

The Phantom Sword clattered to the ground, and Wind pressed his wrist to his chest. 

“Master Link, are you alright? I only meant to knock your sword out of your hand, I--” 

Wind whimpered again and held his hand out in front of him. Orca took the sailor’s wrist in his arms and brushed his finger over the suntanned skin, searching for any soreness or injury. 

“Ouch! Ouch, stop it, that hurts!” Wind pulled his hand back and stared angrily at the older swordsman. The anger in his eyes faded when he registered the shocked look on Orca’s face. 

“Master Link, I’m so so sorry. I may have sprained your wrist. That wasn’t my intention at all, I truly apologize.” 

The sincerity in Orca’s voice was disarming. Wind took a seat on the floor and lifted his hand out in front of him, vaguely irritated when he saw the generally unharmed appearance of his wrist. The bones and muscles underneath burned with a petulant fire, but he had no bruise or marking to show for it. His eyebrows furrowed once again. He hadn even been in the building for five minutes, and he had already lost. Orca began to apologize, but Wind shook his head and smiled. 

“It’s alright. I brought a red potion with me,” the sailor explained. “I’ll be fine. Just give me a moment.” 

Orca sat down beside Wind and continued apologizing as the sailor nursed a bottle of red potion. The sailor shook his head and smiled, wiping away a scrim of crimson from his upper lip as he finished off the drink. His wrist was already feeling better, but the muscles in his back were still bunched with exhaustion. 

How was it that he could drink an entire bottle of healing potion and still feel empty? 

There was something tragically poetic about the thought. 

Wind’s mind began to wander, and Orca watched him thoughtfully. 

“Master Link, what’s bothering you?” 

There was a heartbeat of silence. A pig grunted outside, and the droning of mosquitoes grew softer as a cool breeze circled the hut. 

“You shouldn’t call me ‘Master,’ you know.” 

Orca’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. 

“Of course I should. You’ve earned the title.” 

“I haven’t earned anything. Didn’t you see how quickly you were able to disarm me? Just a single jab at my wrist and, bam, I was sitting on the floor, crying like a baby.” 

Orca combed his fingers through his beard and silently urged Wind to elaborate. 

“I’m just so tired of this,” Wind continued. “I should just give up on fighting. I always thought I was a good swordsman. But, you know, I was with the others earlier today, and we were taking down some moblins up in the forest. Everyone gave me a good lecture on how terrible my swordsmanship was when we got back. I guess I’m not as good as I thought.” The sailor’s voice shook, and he flushed at the sound of his voice and his discoordinated thoughts. The words forced themselves out of his mouth despite his embarrassment. “Why do I keep doing this? What’s the point? I’m so tired. I’m so tired of all of this. I’m so  _ so  _ tired. I hate it. I hate all of this.” 

The Phantom Sword glimmered in the moonlight, and Orca’s face was set into a stony, thoughtful mask. The older swordsman waited for Wind to catch his breath and wipe away tears that didn’t have the chance to properly fall before he spoke. 

“Master Link--” 

“Don’t call me that.” 

Orca’s expression didn’t flicker. 

“Master Link, this isn’t just about your sword fighting skills, is it?” 

“What? Did you hear anything of what I just said? Of course this is about my stupid, nonexistent ‘sword fighting skills.’ ” 

Wind expected Orca to draw back from the ire in his voice, but he only sighed. 

“Link, I know the look of a man exhausted by things far greater than a hard day’s labor.” 

Wind screwed his eyes shut and drew his knees to his chest. 

_ … are you ever so tired that you just … you just want everything to stop? …  _

Months had elapsed since Wind had that conversation with Warriors, and yet the captain’s words still rang in his ears everytime the sailor hugged his brothers or smiled at a stranger. The question had burned its way under his skin, and the answer left him in a state of permanent exhaustion. 

Wind subconsciously wrapped his arms around himself and shook his head. 

“I’m fine. I really am,” Wind whispered. Orca’s silence prodded him for more, and the sailor obliged. “I’m a happy person. Sure, I’m a little tired now, but it’ll go away. It always does. I’m an optimistic person.” 

“There is no such thing as an optimistic person,” Orca responded bluntly. 

“What?” 

“Optimism is an attitude, not a personality trait. It is a lens through which you can choose to see the world, one you can swap out for another at any time, and it comes and goes in seasons. Perhaps some people might be more inclined to choose optimism over pessimism, and there certainly is the factor of predisposition. I believe you’re one of those people. But your optimism does not define you.” 

The sailor’s blood ran cold. His eyes searched the polished hardwood floor for an answer, but only a poor reflection of his face stared back.

“Then who am I?” Wind whispered. 

“Link--” 

“Who am I? What am I? Who am I supposed to be?” Wind’s eyes grew wide, his breath came in shorts, his voice lost the depth and strength puberty had begun to give it. “I’m the optimist. I’m the sailor. Who am I if those things are taken away?” 

Orca placed a hand on Wind’s shoulder. A firefly bumped against the window, and all was still on Outset Island. 

“Orca, sir, may I ask you a question?” 

“Of course, Master Link.”

“When does optimism become self-deception?” 

The room was silent, and Wind felt himself grow hot underneath his tunic. Orca stared at a spot in the wall, silent and careful. 

“Self-deception comes from the desire to be the person others want you to be instead of the person you actually are.” 

Wind bit his lip. His mind grew loud. Thoughts and shards of memories flickered through his mind: the few moments he’d spent with Twilight months ago, the conversation he’d had with Wars, the time he braided Hyrule’s hair just to see the traveler smile...his mind grew louder, and he hid his face in his hands. The memories came faster now, recollection of the hours he spent listening to Legend’s ranting, Sky’s crying, Four’s anxious muttering, the days he spent holding Wild’s hand after the champion recalled a particularly horrible memory, and the way he had hugged the Hero of Time when he’d seen his own grave in Twilight’s era. 

Wind remembered how his smile grew less and less genuine, how his comforting words grew more and more fake, how his heart grew more and more exhausted. He remembered watching the optimist in him die, and the cheerful cynic take his place. 

And he wept. 

Orca watched the Hero of the Winds mourn the death of his ignorance. He watched as the boy’s body shook with sobs, as the sailor’s small hands pulled at his hair, as his face flushed with sorrow. He watched as the tears slipped, then slowed, then stopped. 

“Who am I?” Wind asked. 

“That is a question the Goddess of Time has already answered for you.” 

Wind stared at his hands, at the scars and cuts that laced his skin. He ran his fingers over the calluses of his palms and the blisters on his heels. His stare lingered on the faint, triangular mark on his left hand. 

“Who am I?” Wind whispered. 

Orca sighed thoughtfully. 

“You are Link, Hero of the Winds. The owner of an ancient soul and of noble desire. You are courageous, loving, careful,  _ human.  _ You have failed, you will fail, but you will also triumph.”

Wind buried his face in his hands. Orca continued. 

“Link, why do you think the Demon King seeks out the incarnation of your soul every time he awakens?” 

“He needs the triforce in order to conquer the world,” Wind replied, his words flat and mute. 

“I disagree. You have fought Ganondorf yourself. You know how cunning he is, how quick, how deadly. Do you really think he needs the entire triforce to conquer and kill? He is perfectly capable of doing that already. The power and wisdom and courage that comes with the Golden Goddess’ blessing is only a luxury. I believe that he seeks out the hero’s soul because he saw something inherently worthy in it.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Link, the incarnation of hatred and death looked you in the eye and saw a worthy opponent. What does that say about you?” 

Wind’s eyes grew wide, and his lips parted in understanding. 

But he wasn’t satisfied. Had he spent his life trying to be someone else? Pretending to be someone he thought he was, but really wasn’t? He was supposed to be a hero. He was supposed to be a paragon, a bastion of strength, a patient protector worthy of bearing the name “Link.” 

There were so many things he was supposed to be, and he was none of them.

Maybe it would be better to be no one at all. 

“Who am I?” he begged. 

Orca’s eyes grew gentle. “Master Link, perhaps speaking to the goddesses will ease your pain.” 

“Goddesses? What would they do for me?” Wind’s words came out clipped and harsh, and he recoiled at the fire in his syllables. 

Orca sighed. "I don't know. But I trust that they will be able to give you far more insight into your heart than you will." 

“What could they possibly know about me? I don't even know myself!" 

A clock ticked on a faraway wall. Orca opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. 

"They say the darkest, coldest nights are the ones on which the goddesses speak loudest. Perhaps you will find them at the top of the island, under the moonlight. Deities often lurk in high places. Maybe you will find the answers there.” 

Wind said nothing. The sugary grit from the red potion burned at the back of this throat. He paced in place, twisting and turning on the balls of his feet, wishing that the energy flickering and flaring in his body would be still. 

Perhaps it would indeed be best to speak to the goddesses. 

After all, he had no answers for himself. His heart was buried under so many layers of sunshiny deceit that he couldn't tell the real from the fake. All he felt and understood was a faint thrum of desire. A thought, a hope, a nameless expectation for something that had no guarantee of passing. 

There was only a burning hunger for an answer to his question. 

_ Who am I? _

Wind hovered by the door. The weight of his future pressed against the space between his collarbone and shoulder blade, and his fingers shook. 

"Master Link, be careful." 

A half-hearted nod was the only response Orca received. Wind slung his sword and shield over his shoulder and left with nothing more than a vague mumble of gratitude. He opened the front door and winced as the salty breeze bit his face, wincing again when he let the door slam behind him. Cool sand squelched beneath his feet. A fine layer of silt tickled his toes. The moon rose high above Outset Island, glistening against the indigo sky like a portal to another world. 

If holy places truly existed, then the island shining under the moonlight had to be one of them. 

His heartbeat slowed. A familiar whisper trailed along his soul. A calling.  _ The _ calling. The calling that had spurred him to find Aryll, to rescue Tetra, to enter the portal that brought him to the other Links. 

The goddesses' calling echoed again, and Wind's heart grew better. 

This. 

This was no calling. 

This was a chain. 

So he ran. 

He ran in the opposite direction of the moon, eyes watering as his bare feet slapped against wet sand. He ran away from the things he didn't understand but once thought he did, from a destiny he no longer wanted, from a chain of fate that chafed against his heart and mind and paper-thin attempts at optimism. He ran away from the moon and towards the ocean, away from home and towards the fishing boats grounded against the shoreline.

He pushed the smallest fishing boat off the shore and hopped inside before his conscience could rebuke him. Calm waters bobbled about him. He pulled an oar out from the bottom of the boat and threaded it through the ocean. The hairs along his arms and legs grew laden with salt crystals, and the calluses on his palms ached with each pull of the oar. Cool air buffeted his face. Ripples skittered across the ocean, frosted with white and glistening with calm. 

The call grew faint. 

Fainter. 

And, at last, it disappeared. 

Wind looked behind him. Outset Island was no more than a speck on the horizon.

He paddled faster and ignored the world he was leaving behind. The oar cut through the water with strong, meandering sweeps, unsure in direction but determined in distance. Salt frosted skin of Wind's nose. Sweat trickled down his back as a wave of heat rose from the waters. The ocean grew dark, the sky turned grey, and the boat began to rock uneasily. 

A sharp inhale was the only sound Wind made before the storm broke. 

The boat tossed between broad chested waves and spun across black waters. Wood cracked. Salt and water gushed over the sides of the boat, soaking Wind's feet and legs. His heart screeched within him as the dorsal fins of animals fair and foul cut through the water. Hair whipped in front of his face. His heart burned. He had no magical artifacts or spells or instruments of divine authority to calm the storm before him, and was truly at the mercy of the elements. 

Thunder and lightning split across the sky. A wave crashed over the boat. Wind fell upwards, falling first into the air and then into the water as the boat capsized. The air vanished from his lungs. He kicked and flailed his arms until his head broke the water's surface, scanning the seas for any hint of the boat. Nothing. Another wave forced him below. His clothes grew heavy. His muscles screamed for air. A piece of blackened debris crashed into his temple, and his eyes rolled to the back of his head. 

His body slackened, then fell. 

Stars twinkled far above the surface of the water. The moon glowed brighter. Water pressed down on his sternum, forcing out the air bundled in his throat, squeezing tiny globes of nothing into the waves above. The bubbles floated to the surface -- beautiful, magnificent, and fleeting. 

Like him, and the life he hoped he had lived. 

His tears melded with the water. Consciousness slipped from beneath him, and with his last breath, he asked the only question that mattered. 

"Who am I?" 

Silence. 

And then light. 

Heaven’s light burst from the bottom of the sea, cutting through layers of black and leaving spears of gold in their wake. Fingers of silver, traces of diamond and strings of sapphire undulated around him, wrapping around his fallen figure and filling his lungs with blue divinity. His body stopped falling, then rose, pushed upwards by the arms of the ocean. 

_ "You are Link, Hero of the Winds. You are Link, savior of Hyrule. You are Link, wielder of the Master Sword.”  _

The aroma of heaven filled his nose as he was lifted high above the ocean. Arms of water and light carried him aloft, and his reflection stared back at him from the waves. The ocean rippled with cosmic beauty. The storm melted away. The cold in his bones faded, and a warmth spread in his chest as he hovered in the air. 

Wind dared to look above him, and his eyes locked with Hylia's. 

_ “You are Link, brother of Aryll. You are Link, tormentor of cuckoos. You are Link, friend of Linebeck. And you are Wind: brother of Sky, Four, Time, Twilight, Hyrule, Legend, Wild, Warriors, and the heroes to come. And you are my child, my beloved, my best friend.” _

Gentle fingers wrapped around Wind's own. The sailor stared up at the goddess, and she stared back, eyes brimming with understanding and incomprehensible compassion. 

"Who am I?" Wind whispered. 

_ "You are loved."  _

The Hero of the Winds wept, and Hylia wiped away his tears. 

The tug he had felt, the connection to a destiny greater than himself...

It was not a calling. 

It was not a chain. 

It was a choice. 

The goddess set Wind down on the surface of the water, and the ocean held his weight. Outset Island shone in the distance. 

Wind held Hylia's hand, and she smiled down on him with unfathomable fondness. 

_ "Come, Link, let's go home."  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ✨ Dojyaaan! ✨ And there this story comes to a close. I really, truly hope that you enjoyed it. Thank you so much for reading this far, and I hope that “Tarshish” was able to entertain you and perhaps give you some food for thought. Oh! And before I forget, I wanted to clarify that Wind is NOT dead. Hylia picked him up out of the water before he died, and when she said “let’s go home” she’s talking about Outset, not heaven. Don’t worry -- no major character death here!!! 
> 
> Anyway, if anyone was interested in some more context for the form and structure for this story, I had two main inspirations. Of course, you don’t have to read this if you’re not interested. I just thought it would be a neat thing to share, haha!! 
> 
> The first inspiration was Sufjan Steven’s incredible song, “My Rajneesh.” The mystical and mournful tone of the song inspired this entire fic. I highly recommend you give it a listen if you have the time!! The second inspiration for the story was the Biblical book of Jonah. I personally believe that, although it’s only five chapters long, it’s one of the most thought-provoking books in the entire Old Testament. The themes of courage and denial and all the things in between were a major inspiration for this fic, and the three main settings the book takes place in (Joppa, Tarshish, and Nineveh) gave a structure to the three chapters of this story. And yeah! I hope that was interesting and gave a bit more insight on how and why I wrote the story the way I did :O 
> 
> If you have any thoughts, please don’t be afraid to leave a comment! I reply to each one I get. Of course, you are never obligated to do so! As long as you enjoyed the story, I’m happy. Happy December and January-adjacent holidays to you all!

**Author's Note:**

> There we go. I hope it was an enjoyable read! Have a fantastic day, everyone! 
> 
> ((And to everyone wondering where the next chapter of "The Most Sincere Kind of Lie" is, it's in the works. I'm going to respond to all the comments on Chapter 8 today and tomorrow, and I'm going to have Chapter 9 out before Thursday. It's just giving me loads of trouble. This fic was actually just supposed to be a practice for writing fight scenes, because Ch9 is going to be v combat heavy. Alright, that's enough rambling. Take these internet hugs and kisses from me, and make sure to take care of yourself today!))


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